


tough love (but i know i don't mind)

by demourer



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mr. & Mrs. Smith Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 03:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demourer/pseuds/demourer
Summary: This is not how Peter pictured the celebration night of their anniversary. He pictured them sitting in the dining room, eating whatever Peter made - even though he knew he's bad at cooking and would end up ordering take out anyway. Well, something normal and classy, just like what married couples do and most certainly; it does not involve guns and breaking the house upside down.





	tough love (but i know i don't mind)

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this story was inspired from the famous Mr. & Mrs. Smith shooting scene and the scene after that, but it's Quentin and Peter. And they're married.

“Did I hit your arm, daddy?” Peter shouts from his hiding spot behind the wall while removing the empty magazine from his gun, peeks a bit from his spot and seeing his husband is still ducked behind the half-destroyed couch.

The response comes immediately with a grunt, “you missed, actually,”

Well, isn’t that offending? Peter feels the corner of his mouth pinched in pique at Quentin’s stupid reply but still tries his best to his composure because a single stupid comment from his husband won’t make him waste the rest of his bullets.

This is not how Peter pictured the celebration night of their anniversary.

He pictured them sitting in the dining room, eating whatever Peter made - even though he knew he's bad at cooking and would end up ordering take out anyway. Well, something normal and classy, just like what married couples do and most certainly; it does not involves guns and breaking the house upside down.

It’s funny how such a simple thing can ruin everything in a blink that sometimes Peter thinks it might give him whiplash. All of these happen when he found out – or more like his crew found out – that the skilled assassin he met on his recent mission is Quentin Beck. Aka, his _husband_.

The man who almost shot him in the head, and also the man who Peter shot in the shoulder. But from the activity, they’re in right now, it turns out the wound doesn’t bother him that much so it means it wasn’t a fatal shot. A grazed wound, then – since it still bleeds through Beck’s white shirt. Peter would feel guilty and probably blame himself for life.

“Funny how your shooting skill is bad as your cooking, sweetheart,” Quentin adds, then chuckles lowly like he knows that it hits Peter’s bad spot.

Or maybe not.

Peter will feel very happy if he can put another bullet in his other shoulder.

“Asshole,” he mutters darkly before he finally cocks the gun and shoots the spot near the sofa repeatedly, which not long after that reveals Quentin crouching behind it, holding his gun. 

Peter dodges the bullets in time by hiding himself on the previous spot behind the wall, holding his own gun in a tight grip. He knows that Quentin barely shoot him since Peter found out the bloodstain on his white shirt – the exact spot where he shot his enemy this morning – and he hasn’t reloaded his gun and his other gun was left in the next room, which only leads to one conclusion: Quentin doesn’t bring any more weapon with him. 

When he hears the gunfire suddenly dies out and a low curse of “_fuck!_”, he knows that it’s his cue to starts shooting again. Knowing the couch is not going to hold him long, Quentin comes out from his hiding spot and runs as fast as he can to the living room, which makes Peter curses lowly because; not the _living_ room. Not his fucking living room.

He knows in his gut that Quentin does it on purpose because he knows how much Peter spent his time to make the living room looks perfect. And now, Peter hates him for it.

Quentin keeps dodging the bullets by running and throwing things within his reach – he really does that on purpose, Peter thinks angrily. As Peter reaches the living room, the gun suddenly runs out of bullets. Seeing it as an opportunity, Quentin throws the vase from the desk near the window at Peter. Luckily for him, Peter covers his face in time but then stares at the broken pieces of porcelain laying on the floor.

“Did you just throw the fucking vase?” He shrieks in horror.

“I never liked them anyway,” Quentin casually replies, which offends the younger man. He walks backward slowly with his left hand ready to grab the books on the desk behind him. It’s not a proper weapon, he knows, but at least it’s proper enough to distract his husband from attacking him more with whatever he has in his hands.

“But you told me you loved it!” Peter shouts, can’t help the whining sound lacing in his voice. The gun he pointed seconds ago is now beside him. 

He really loved the vase, for fuck sake. Peter bought it a year ago when he’s in a mission somewhere in Germany. Came home with a smile plastered on his face and Quentin’s confused face. He asked for Quentin’s opinion at that time and he said it was beautiful. Quentin even praised his taste, how he always picked the prettiest things and such. He also commented about the pattern on the vase and how it looked vintage and lovely. So it hurts him when he said that. 

And it somehow hurts him more to know that Quentin lied to him rather than when he found out that he lied about his whole life. “What else have you lied to me about?”

Seeing Peter feels betrayed, makes his heart aches but Quentin being the dumbass he is, he replies: “Your cooking. You _suck_ at it. Because either they’re bland or always had too much salt.”

Peter's look suddenly turns into a death glare, throwing the useless gun on the floor as it clatters against the flooring. “You’re dead to me, Quentin Beck.”

“Not before I kill you first, Peter _Beck_.”

Right when Peter pulls the knife hastily from the straps on his thigh, Quentin throws a book at him which hits him right in the forehead. And, God, it hurts. What kind of book is that, anyway? Peter doesn’t remember putting any book on the desk and knowing from the hit, it was a thick one. He can start to feel the flesh swelling from it.

“What the fuck.” Vision blurring from the hit, he groans in pain. Peter winces when he accidentally presses the swelling as he holds his head in his hand. 

On the other hand, Quentin takes the advantage to push him, knocking him off balance until he hits the floor, startling him completely. As Quentin straddles him, he grabs the knife from his hand, stabbing the younger man on the thigh. Peter screams in agony, suddenly more aware of the pain on his right thigh rather than the one on his head.

It takes him solid three seconds to realize that he just stabbed his husband. 

Fuck, Quentin just _stabbed_ him.

Not giving into his sensitive side, Quentin pulls at the knife and putting his weight fully on his husband’s waist. It’s either he’s scared Peter will take the knife from him and then gives him a perfect chance to stab him back or Quentin just doesn’t want to see him suffer from the wound.

Still hazy from the pain, Peter feels something wraps around his neck, stopping him from taking any more oxygen from his lungs. Knowing from his position – and with Peter laying on the floor, completely defenseless, Quentin knows that this is the perfect time to stab him to death or maybe choke him. 

When Peter opens his eyes, suddenly it’s all that Quentin can ever focus on. Even with the heated glare, it’s still the same set of eyes he saw every morning when he woke up, or when they fucked, and Quentin’s too overwhelmed with the growing pleasure between them so instead of focusing on Peter’s moans of asking to fuck him harder, he focused on his eyes.

And he knows how they start to water when Quentin’s grip on the knife tightening. Did Peter really think that he will kill him? That he will stab in just like that, after what they’ve been through all these years. Waste their five years of happiness just because their job made them do it.

Now after Quentin voices it all out, it does sound insane. 

They literally just spent their time trying to kill each other and not even stopping – well, not until now. The thought of Peter in his position now, makes the blood drains from his face. What if he was the one who’s on the floor, pinned down by his own husband? Would Peter do the same? 

Would Peter kill him?

His mind wanders back to the time where he met Peter for the first time. Thinking, was that an undercover like what he had but then turned out he met the love of his life and then suddenly, a change of plan. Did Peter experience the same thing or was it an undercover all along?

Quentin did fell in love with Peter. 

It’s not undercover, not a lie. He’s one hundred percent sure about it. Because here they are, six years later, marriage still going strong. They sure did had bumps on the road but it’s nothing they couldn’t handle. 

He remembers about the night where Peter came home, wet from the top of his head to the bottom of his shoes, raging with fever. He’s whining about how hoarse his throat was so Quentin made him can soup – that was too hot, it burned his tongue yet he still enjoyed every single bite of it. Or the night on New Year's Eve where they made love in the living room and woke up the next morning with Peter complained having a carpet burn on his back and thinking, is it worth it? 

Is it worth killing the man he loves?

Quentin shifts the knife in his grip, palm sweating while holding the edge of the knife and suddenly everything is so silent, it’s deafening. His throat is dry and the saliva in his mouth isn’t enough to make the dryness go away.

“Do it and finish your job.” He croaks out, the voice sounded tired after all of their fights.

With Quentin’s left hand choking him and the other holding the knife – leaving Peter’s hands bare, he can hit him. Peter can shove him and then reverse their position, or maybe Peter can knock the knife out of his hand and punch him then kill him. But no, Peter does none of the above.

Even if in the end, Peter does want to kill him. Even if all of these six years of marriage is turns out to be an undercover mission to kill Quentin and bring down the company, he couldn’t care less. Because Quentin loves him. And if he has to die tonight, it will be better if he dies in his husband’s hand.

So, instead of doing what his husband just said, he withdraws the knife from its position on top of Peter’s chest. He has made up his mind; that he cannot do it. Not now, not ever. He cannot do it. No, not with his husband.

“Do it, daddy.”

“I can’t,” Quentin quickly replies, surprised to find his throat working. “Not to you, baby, I _can’t_.”

Peter takes a sharp inhale when Quentin shows his words aren’t merely words by throwing the knife far away from him, hears the weapon clattering as it hits the floor. Emotion flickers on Peter’s face but it’s still unreadable. He lets out the breath he has been holding this time 

He almost thinks that it doesn’t convince the younger man but then Peter kisses him hard on the mouth which he returns it immediately by licking Peter’s bottom lip and opening his mouth so he can lick the inside of his mouth deeper. His tongue catches a tang of metallic taste, which could be from his own blood from unconsciously biting the inside of his cheek.

Peter’s hands find its place on Quentin’s hair, pulling on it and hums happily when the older man grunts from the contact. When they pull off regretfully because of the lack of oxygen, Quentin smirks, catching how Peter’s eyes are half-lidded and hazy because of the pleasure and adrenaline combined in his veins.

“You’re an idiot if you’re thinking I will kill you, Peter.” Quentin knows he’s fucked up when he sees the growing smile on his husband’s face.

A glint of excitement flashes in his eyes that still has the unshed tears on them. “You’ve tried it couple times this night,” Peter replies casually like it’s a usual thing a married couple does in their everyday life.

Well, he’s fucked but at least he’s not alone.

***

Life is strange, sometimes.

How like hours ago, he prepared a dinner for his six years anniversary, foods looking good and tasty – not really, actually it tasted salty like he poured a bucket of salt over it but he guessed it was fine – expecting Quentin to kiss him and tell him how good his cooking is – fun fact, it never happens – turned into a whole shooting scene in the fucking house that involves lots of guns and knives and other thing Quentin threw at him. 

Peter had expected this far. He did prepare himself a gun which is pretty much useful since Quentin already had one in his hands, sneaking around the kitchen like a rat. What he didn’t expect was them, sitting on the floor with their dinner – cold baked mac and cheese that turned out was overcooked so when Peter scoops it in his mouth it turns soggy and cheesy and _salty_– and Quentin sitting next to him, happily sipping on his milk.

“Wait, hold on, the woman, the one that came to the wedding, your mother,” Peter makes an air quote, “she’s not your real mother, isn’t she?” Despite the mess they made – and Peter’s stinging wound on his thigh – the situation is somewhat nice, he’s content at that moment with only wearing Quentin’s shirt, unbuttoned and his boxer. Next to him Quentin’s naked on the top but wearing his jeans – because he said it was chilly.

“No, no. I paid her.”

Peter almost chokes on his mac and cheese. “What? She’s an actress then?”

“And so is the man.” He confirms it with an amused smile on his face.

“But we came to their house, for Christmas every _year_.” Peter shrieks at him, sounding horrified and appalled. The mac and cheese is abandoned, laid on his lap because Peter still cannot process what’s truly happening and with this information, it makes his head spinning. “Quentin, I gave them apple pie every year, don’t tell me they had allergies or something because it would make me feel bad.”

“No, baby. They loved it.” Quentin can’t help but feel the corner of his lips tug into a smile at the relief in his husband’s face. “And I paid them anyway, _so_,” he shrugs, leaving the sentence hanging like the answer is obvious.

“Wow, they’re really _that_ good at acting.” He huffs and spoons up more mac and cheese into his mouth.

“What about yours?”

Glancing at Quentin with a fork in his hand hanging, he pauses on his chewing. “They’re my friends. They’re dating – still do, which is amazing – and they’re willing to help me.” Peter smiles with his mouth full, somewhat proud of it. “They’re like five years older than me, I think? And also I have a baby face which kinda helps the situation and makes me look younger.” Peter replies, triumphantly.

“Of course you are.” Quentin laughs heartily before he takes another gulp on the milk. Peter actually didn’t like it when he does that because only real psychopath who drinks milk from its box and it’s also unsanitary in his opinion, but only for today, he does deserve a break from all Peter’s lecture. 

Despite the fun and joke they had, there’s a sudden change in the air that makes them shift.

Peter knows the conversation will be serious. And they will eventually talk about their future relationship, their _jobs_. Well, fuck the boss and the job. As cheesy as it sounds, Peter doesn’t care if he loses his job as long as he has Quentin by his side. They’re _fucking_ assassins for God's sake. No, scratch that. They are the most powerful assassins in the world. God knows what will happen if someone messes with them.

When the silence breaks it’s because Peter asks:

“What else, I mean, the thing that you haven’t told me, or like, lied to me?”

Quentin can’t help but acknowledge the sharp pang in his chest when the words left his husband’s mouth. It’s kind of an irony, how they’re live a happy married life based on a lie. 

“Besides that, well, not much,” he turns his head to look at Peter, lean back on the fridge that makes a whirring sounds on the back. “My parents died in an accident, I think? I dunno, I forgot about it. It’s just never crossed my mind again since I join this killing spree thing,” Peter laughs the joke.

“Like mine, then. But instead, I never meet them and it doesn’t bother me that much.” Quentin knows his husband. Heck, they’ve been married for six years and he knows by heart when Peter says things like that, it _does_ actually bother him. Because when he finishes, Quentin sees like he has fallen into deep thought with a deep furrow between his eyebrows and his bottom lip jutting out.

“Well, the good thing is we don’t need to go to your _parents'_ house to bring more apple pie on Christmas.” He pokes Peter on the ribs, makes him startles and giggles at the contact. 

The silence suddenly settles again, but this time isn’t that deafening because Peter suddenly blurts out:

“Do you love me, daddy?”

The question is simple yet Quentin feels like his heart stops when he hears it. He cannot avoid the pain lacing in Peter’s voice, the doubt and the betrayed. It takes him five seconds to realize that Peter isn’t chewing on his mac and cheese anymore. He left it abandoned on the ground next to a broken piece of porcelain, half-eaten, suddenly not interesting enough for Peter.

It’s not exactly his fault that Peter asks him about the realness of his feelings because Quentin is actually thinking about the same thing. They’ve been lying to each other's faces for years and it was covered up so fucking well – since it lasted for years – so he doesn’t blame him when he starts to question their relationship. Their love. Their vow on the altar.

Quentin might be a liar and a cold-blooded killer, but he does have a feeling. 

He is capable of loving.

He’d ever let his guard down once in his lifetime and it was when he met Peter for the first time, wearing the beautiful tux with his hair styled and the charming yet shy smile painted on his face, walking from the door with such composure that made Quentin stutter when he introduced himself.

The protocol always said that he was not supposed to use his real name, real identity, because it was dangerous. He’d never know what might happen and instead of staying on the track of his undercover, he said his name, his _full_ name. And Quentin Beck never stuttered and yet he did when he met Peter that time in Barcelona. Peter was such a sight that time that if he did kill him in the spot, he would’ve let him. 

The first time meeting and Peter already had him wrapped around his fingers so fast.

It was that only time and he’d never regret that decision: of ripping his mask off of his face, stripping himself bare, without manipulative covering and sweet lie. He had let his guard down and he’s sure that Peter did the same too. 

So when Peter asks that, the answer is so obvious and it’s a:

“Yes.”

Relief floods over on his face and he can’t help to feel the same, because it proofs that Peter does actually love him. It’s not a cover. It is real.

To make the creases between his eyebrows disappear and the weight on his heart lessen, Quentin adds: “You know how dumb I might be, on making spontaneous decisions. But loving you wasn’t one of them.”

Quentin knows he meant it when he watches the smile plastered on his husband’s face. The same face he saw six years ago with the same set of eyes and charming smile. Without wasting more time, he surges forward and catches Peter’s mouth in a kiss.

Huh, fuck the world then. He has his husband on his side and that means everything to him.

Everything will be okay.


End file.
